


Running Man

by InkFlavored



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen, I really have no idea how to tag this, Light Angst, Pre-Canon, i guess??, no other characters are really in this, only mentioned a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFlavored/pseuds/InkFlavored
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first thing Percival did when his family was slaughtered before his eyes was run." // what i imagined percy was like before vox machina, and even a little after. hope you enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Man

He was Percival first. More specifically, Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III. Percival was a budding engineer, not too concerned with competing for the throne of Whitestone with his six other siblings, and not trained for such things either. He was happy, if wondering where his life was going. Not trained to be an heir, royal all the same. But, all the same, he did attend his classes, he did attend the meetings he was required to. He did what he was asked.

And the first thing Percival did when his family was slaughtered before his eyes was run.

He had a perfectly good reason to – only a madman would be comfortable seeing the deaths of the people he loves. So he ran. Percival ran from his cell where he had been held captive in his own home. He ran with his sister’s fingers crushed desperately in his hand. He ran when they finally reached the edge of the forest. He ran when her harsh breath caught in her throat. He ran when he heard her body _thump_ to the dirt. He ran with hot tears and sweat and a heart that jumped in his throat. He ran until he lost feeling in his legs when he jumped into the river.

He escaped Whitestone. He didn’t stop running. In the first city he came across, he ran from his own appearance, changed his hair from brown to white. He stayed at a tavern for the night and took off running again in the morning. He rested for the night in the next town, and in the next morning, took off running again. And the next town. And the next. And the next. He kept running, he never stopped running. He didn’t run far enough. He could _never_ run far enough.

Percival had become the Running Man, and the Running Man could never run far enough away.

The Running Man ran from every city and town he came across, never staying more than a few days before bolting like a wild animal. In a way, that’s exactly what he was. Acting on pure instinct, he ran far and he ran fast. He ran from his home, his pursuers, his fear. The only time he stopped running was when he realized he couldn’t survive by running alone. He had not a copper to his name – whichever name that was. He made up a new name in every town he came across, still running. Always running, even when standing still.

He became a fisherman to make some money for himself, but only worked as long as he needed before he took off running once again. He took on a few tasks in several towns, only enough to keep him alive. He still ran, even when he was in a country he didn’t recognize, he ran. He kept running away, fast, far, just _running_. Desperately, fearfully, hopelessly running away from everything he’d ever known.

Then, one night, the Running Man found something running _towards_ him.

A dream, but not a dream. Real, but not quite reality. Asleep, yet somehow wide awake. A sound like a thunderclap so loud it might’ve ruptured his ears went off in his mind. A condensed plume of black smoke rocketed toward him, threatening to blind him before it stopped just before him, forming into a tall form with a long beak and talons like swords. And then it spoke, an ethereal voice echoing through his mind, not quite painful, but not comfortable either. It introduced itself as Orthax and presented a deal. It whispered of vengeance, of clicking contraptions and whirring gears, it promised the blood of those who sent him running from his home. It wanted to help him. It only wished to stop his running.

The offer seemed simple enough to the Running Man. He was tired of the running, hated the running. He was angry at himself, at his cowardice. He thought of the Briarwoods dead and bleeding, and revenge captured his heart in an icy grip. The Running Man agreed to the deal, and before his eyes flashed a contraption like he’d never seen, a small device capable of launching tiny bits of metal at such high speeds it was deadly. The deal was sealed with the sound of what would become the sound that sent his enemies running in fear, running away, running from him. Running like he was.

And for the first time, the Running Man found himself running right into danger.

However, Danger seemed to like that idea quite a bit. The first bit of trouble the Running Man found, Danger threw him in a cell. Danger locked him up the prison of his enemy. Danger left him in a tiny jail to rot. How long would he be here, he wondered. The cell was quite small. Too small for a Running Man, for a man who needed to run away. There was nowhere for him to run this time. He found himself grow cold at the idea that the only thing left for him to run from was his own insanity, left in a cell, forgotten.

Once again, the Running Man found something run toward him.

But not a something, someone. More than one. Seven people, a group of various shapes and races and colors. They ran at him, threw open his cell door, and told him to run. Easy enough instructions for the Running Man, so he followed them. He ran out of his cell and into freedom, the first taste of it he had for a long time. He almost ran away from his saviors, almost thanked them and continued on his path of vengeance. Almost.

And then he had a thought. He hadn’t run in a while, but he knew that he was tired of running alone. He’d been alone for too long. And he knew the damage the Briarwoods could cause, he knew he couldn’t get his revenge on his own. So he joined the band of adventures, in doing so telling his first truth since he had become the Running Man: his name. His full name. It felt nice to finally say it all after so long, if only to remind himself it existed. However, he saw the eyes of his saviors widen – in surprise or fear he couldn’t tell – so he offered the name “Percy,” in its stead.

And Percy the Running Man became.

Percy didn’t _stop_ running, of course. But he ran with people, he ran with his friends. He ran aside Vox Machina, he ran with a light heart and quick feet. He ran with a smile at some times, and at others a grimace of pain, clutching a wound or a misfired pepperbox, but knew always he had a workshop to go back to or a potion or spell to heal him. He ran to his friends, and they ran to him, they ran to help each other. Running had become a sign of friendship, a bond, even when they were escaping, they escaped together. He ran with his friends – his family.

He decided he’d run with Vox Machina for a while. He didn’t seem to care how long “a while” was, as long as he was running with his friends, as long as he could run in once place for a bit. Not running away from anything, not running to anyone, just running. In the same spot, running. Running with the same friends, running on adventures, and then running back to Grayskull Keep to keep running in place.

It was nice, running in place. He ran in place for years. Sometimes, Percy was even close to forgetting why running had been such a burden on him. Sometimes he forgot the Running Man, relieved of the man who always ran away. Sometimes.

But, Percy had been so busy running in place, he’d let the people that he’d be running from catch up.

He heard the name Briarwood. As soon as he heard the name Briarwood, thought of a plan to run. Through his stumbling tongue and shaking legs, he ran for information, he ran to Grayskull, he ran to his workshop. He ran away. He ran to. He ran.

And then the Briarwoods came. Percy’s heels were bouncing. His throat pulsed with the quick beat of his heart. Every inch of him was screaming at him to run. He remembered what it felt like to be the Running Man.

His dear friends, his new family, tried to talk to Percy, but alas, their efforts were in vain. The Running Man would not listen, as he was already running. He was running from their concern, their questions, their help. He thought about picking up and running. For so long, he thought about running, continuing his path of running away, the path he had abandoned for so long. But then Orthax spoke to him again, after so many years, the sound he learned to call a “gunshot,” running through his mind as the smoke promised vengeance and death to the Running Man.

Soon after, he found himself running alongside his friends towards the place he’d been running away from for so long. It confused him. He was running, yes, but with Vox Machina. But to Whitestone. But with two guns and a smoke spirit whispering in his ear.

“He” was no longer sure if he was Percival, Percy, or the Running Man.

Maybe he was something else.


End file.
